


a sad tale's best for winter

by justbreathe80



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-15
Updated: 2009-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbreathe80/pseuds/justbreathe80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver was a bastard, Geoffrey decided. Like that had not been crystal clear from the day they met. And he couldn't say much better for himself at times. The theater was full of worthless bastards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a sad tale's best for winter

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to brooklinegirl for the beta, and shayheyred for suggesting The Winter's tale in the first place, which was PERFECT, and making sure it sounded real. And to William Shakespeare, since several hundred of these words are his, and without him, this show of my HEART would never have existed.

_ **A sad tale's best for winter; I have one  
Of sprites and goblins.** _

Geoffrey fucking _hated_ this play. He'd managed somehow to pretend that it wasn't on the season's schedule for the past few months, although he'd lashed out at Oliver when he first announced it. He was marginally polite in the theater, and waited until he'd followed Oliver into his office and slammed the door shut to really let loose. He was angry. He didn't like the role of Leontes, even if it was damn well written, and _yes_, he knew that Ellen would make a transcendent Hermione, but why couldn't they have done something else? Anything else. God.

"For God's sake, Oliver. I know that variety is good, but _The Winter's Tale_?"

Oliver sighed and slumped down in his chair, looking exhausted. "Really, Geoffrey. You know it's perfect for Ellen. I had hoped that you would understand."

"Yes, I know, Ellen _is_ Hermione, but there is nothing else good about this play. Nothing. Frankly, it's boring. No one gets it." He sounded like a petulant child, but he couldn't stop himself.

"Geoffrey, Leontes is a fantastic part, and you play it exceeding well. You know that his lines are wonderful. What, do you think you could do better than Shakespeare?" Oliver had an almost wicked glint in his eye, like was goading Geoffrey into complacency.

"Perhaps I could. Then I wouldn't have to do it."

"You're being dramatic, even for an actor. Please, just get through it, for me," Oliver said wearily.

"Fuck. Fine. Next season, I'd like to be _asked_, even if it's just as a goddamn courtesy."

Oliver laughed and shooed him out of the office, his hand hot on the small of Geoffrey's back. "See you at rehearsal tomorrow. And keep your eyes on the prize."

_Hamlet_.

Oliver was a bastard, Geoffrey decided. Like that had not been crystal clear from the day they met. And he couldn't say much better for himself at times. The theater was full of worthless bastards.

** _Nor night nor day no rest. It is but weakness  
To bear the matter thus_ **

The first read-through was on a Tuesday morning. Geoffrey walked in with Ellen and took his seat at the table. He could do the read-through despite its more abhorrent qualities; the words were good. And he could feel a thrill when Ellen read the lines, the one he always got, the thrill of being desperately in love with her. "No, by my life, privy to none of this-how will this grieve you when you shall come to clearer knowledge, that you thus have published me!"

Ellen was partway through when there was that slight electric-sounding noise and the room went dark. Completely. "Fuck," Geoffrey muttered under his breath. This was _not_ a good sign, at all.

"Shit," Oliver said, then raised his voice. "What on earth happened to my lights?" It was pitch-black and people were murmuring and rustling the pages of their scripts. It was the middle of the day and sunny, but at New Burbage, the room where they did read-throughs was in the fucking basement. Just perfect, really.

Geoffrey could make out the faint outline of Jack, one of the lighting techs, as he threw open the door. The lights were out in the hallway too. "Sorry, Oliver, we were testing some lights on the stage and we must have blown a fuse -"

Oliver sighed heavily, as if he were carrying the weight of the whole world on his shoulders, as opposed to just a theater festival production of _The Winter's Tale_. Geoffrey could almost feel the breath rushing forth from him over the few feet that separated them. "Fine, fine, I really do not care. Just get them back on, will you please? Ellen was in the middle of a truly dazzling Hermione."

"Yes, Oliver. Sorry again," Jack muttered and scrambled out of the room. If only he knew Oliver's bark was far worse than his bite.

"Oliver," Ellen said softly, leaning across Geoffrey's lap. "I can do it from memory, if you'd like. How about you, Geoffrey?" Her small, soft hand landed on his thigh and stroked up to his inseam. Of course he knew the lines, knew this play like the back of his hand despite its odious nature, but he couldn't think of anything with Ellen leaning across him like that.

"I can do it. Let's go," Geoffrey said, his voice coming out all high-pitched and ridiculous.

"All right, then," Oliver said, and Ellen moved back to her seat, leaving Geoffrey's lap cold, but she didn't move her hand. Even though he couldn't really make out her features, he could see her wicked smile in his head. "Everyone, we're going to keep going. Muddle through until the lights come on."

Ellen started a few lines before where she left off, her voice strong and passionate in the dark almost-silence.

"Gentle my lord, you scarce can right me thoroughly then to say you did mistake."

Geoffrey took a deep breath. "No; if I mistake in those foundations which I build upon, the centre is not big enough to bear..." Ellen smiled, he could make out the edges of it in the dark. He almost lost his place, but he managed to finish the line, somehow.

"There's some ill planet reigns. I must be patient till the heavens look with an aspect more favourable."

At that moment, the lights came back on.

** _It shall be possible. Swear by this sword  
Thou wilt perform my bidding._ **

The final dress. Geoffrey had to admit, rather grudgingly, that the production was _good_. Oliver had a vision, a damn good one, and Ellen was bloody fantastic, and it was coming together. He still hated it, but it was almost over. Then came the really, really good stuff. Hamlet. Ophelia.

Oliver came by his dressing room, like he always did, to give his preposterous pre-formulated speech that he gave all the actors. Except he didn't give it to Geoffrey, and Geoffrey suspected that Ellen got something special too.

"Geoffrey," Oliver said coolly, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He smelled vaguely of wine, probably from the cocktail hour with the sponsors that Geoffrey had blown off.

"Listen, I'm sorry I didn't -"

"Relax. It was silly of them to think that you would come to an event like that before the final dress. It really was not a problem." Geoffrey looked up to see Oliver standing behind him, reflected in the mirror. Oliver put his hands firmly on Geoffrey's shoulders.

"Well, they should know that some of us actually are in the theater around here," Geoffrey said haughtily. Oliver smiled, and tightened his fingers.

"Break a leg, Geoffrey," Oliver said softly. "It really is fabulous, despite your reservations."

"Yes," he said, smoothing his hair back from his face, not breaking eye contact with Oliver. "I know."

They stayed like that for a moment, just looking, then Oliver squeezed and let go, backing away toward the door. Then, he was gone.

"Ten minutes," Maria said over the PA system, and Geoffrey stood up and took off his street clothes, draping them over the back of the chair and pulling his tunic and pants off of the hanger behind him. When he shrugged on the tunic, he noticed the really fantastically _huge_ hole in the side where the seams used to come together.

Usually, he waited until the last minute to get dressed and put on his makeup, so he didn't have so much time to _think_ about everything, about going on stage in front of all of those people, so he could just do it and make it happen out there. Stupid fucking superstitious bullshit. Now he was screwed.

He bolted to his door and stuck his head out in the hallway. "Jenny!" he yelled, loud enough to startle everyone who was standing in the hallway, especially the young woman who had the misfortune of passing Geoffrey's door at that exact moment. The small, blonde costume mistress was striding up the hall and stopped short about twenty feet away and whipped around. He lowered his voice now that he knew that she was close. "Jenny, I need you. Now."

"Okay..." she said, coming closer quickly, but managing to look a little hesitant at the same time. He turned and pushed his hand into the hole, wiggling his fingers and looking at her, hoping that his look was as desperate as he felt. "Jesus, how did you do _that_?"

Geoffrey closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I don't know. I hate this play. Maybe I'm cursed?" Jenny smiled slightly and pushed him into his dressing room, closing the door behind her and kneeling down next to him with a needle caught between her teeth. Where the hell did she get that from so fast?

"Okay, I'll sew, you put your makeup on, and we'll try not to make Oliver come down here when you're not in the wings at five minutes, to rip you a new one. Sound good?"

He nodded and put his makeup on while Jenny sewed, the wisp of the metal brushing against his skin.

When she was done, she patted him on the side and stood up. "Break a leg," she said. He took a deep breath and went to take his place. It really couldn't get much worse than this.

_ **Give me thy hand  
Be pilot to me and thy places shall  
Still neighbor mine.** _

The first performance started, and Geoffrey was instantly sorry that he'd ever thought that it couldn't get worse, because of course it was, and it could.

They'd barely gotten through the first few minutes when Steven, who was playing Polixenes, had what appeared to be a minor nervous breakdown on the stage. He was missing his blocking and some of his cues, and he was changing the _lines_, for God's sake. They could only hope that no one in the audience had actually read or seen this stupid play before. Which wasn't bloody likely.

Steven wasn't _awful_. Offensive to anyone who considered themselves a lover of Shakespeare, but he was getting through it. Geoffrey was trying to compensate when he could, however he could.

Then, silence. Steven just stood there, looking petrified.

"Steven," Geoffrey hissed under his breath. He could see Oliver trying to stay calm in the wings, trying not to come out and strangle Steven and drag him off the stage. "Press me not, beseech you..."

Steven looked up, and then promptly passed out.

Shit.

Geoffrey did his best to cover, just saying something while Oliver scrambled and pushed David out onto the stage, who hopefully knew the lines better than Steven did. David looked shell-shocked, but he recovered and got into it, and they pushed through the rest of the first act.

Right before the curtain dropped, after bowing with Ellen's hand held tightly in his, Geoffrey breathed out a huge, deep, cleansing sigh of relief.

_ **What noise there, ho?  
No noise, my lord, but needful conference  
About some gossips for your highness.** _

The second performance was already worlds better than the first one. To start, Steven had been checked into New Burbage General Hospital, which was probably for the best, since he had been sitting in the hallway and babbling by the time the cast came off the stage. So David was permanently playing Polixenes, which was fine. Everything was fine.

Ellen was at center stage, standing tall, proud. "More than mistress of which comes to me in name of fault I must not at all acknowledge. For Polixenes, with whom I am accused, I do confess I loved him, as in honor he required."

Geoffrey just watched her, and right then, for the first time since they'd started this play, he knew exactly why Oliver had chosen it. The lights were bright on Ellen's face, and she was practically glowing, even though she was _supposed_ to be the desperate, accused wife who was begging her husband to believe that she hadn't slept with his beloved best friend. In that moment, everything was perfect. Ellen was perfect, and beautiful.

Geoffrey opened his mouth to say his line, to tell Ellen he didn't believe her, that she was a treasonous whore, when he heard a small scream and watched in horror as the set came crashing down to the stage, almost crushing Jeannie, who was playing Paulina. Ellen's head jerked up, and she looked at him, trying to get him, with her eyes, to get a grip and _keep going_. Had to keep going.

"You knew of his departure, as you know what you have underta'en to do in's absence."

Ellen's eyes were relieved, and screw the set, screw this stupid play, screw everything. Geoffrey just let himself stay with Ellen, for the rest of the scene.

_ **Take her hence.  
Her heart in but o'ercharged; she will recover.  
I have too much believed mine own suspicion.  
Beseech you tenderly apply to her  
Some remedies for life.** _

That night, after a few drinks at Young's, they stumbled back to Geoffrey's apartment, Ellen giggling and pressing against his back as he tried to get the damn key into the lock despite his unsteady hands.

"God, Geoffrey. It's awful, isn't it?"

He finally got the door unlocked and pushed it open, tumbling to the floor with Ellen on top of him, her eyes shining. "Well, it's certainly not the best. But you? You're radiant."

Ellen smiled and leaned down to bury her face into his neck. "You're crazy," she said.

A minutes later, without shoes and coats, which were in a pile in the front hallway next to the (hopefully closed) door, Geoffrey watched Ellen she shed her clothes, trying to still his own shaking hands on the buttons of his shirt. Each piece she removed, there was one more stretch of smooth, soft skin, and he barely got his pants off from around his ankles before he got his hands on her.

He spread her out on the bed, her hair fanned out above her head, and he could just watch her forever and never get tired of it. She was everything.

Geoffrey eased himself onto the bed, crawling up Ellen's body and kissing her, feeling her skin underneath his lips, and it was as good as it looked. It always was. When he finally made it to her lips, she reached out and cupped his neck, pulling him close.

They stayed like that, pressed against each other, nothing between them, his tongue stroking slowly and gently into her mouth. Then Ellen worked her hand between them and guided his cock inside her.

Oh. No matter how many times they did this, it was always like this at first. Like a revelation, even if the sex wasn't earth-shattering. Even if it was simply ordinary. Ellen was hot and wet inside, and she was wrapping her legs around his waist and whispering to him, "Geoffrey, please. Please." He let himself sink inside her, let her pull him in, until he was all the way inside and Ellen was groaning against his ear and trying to get him to move.

He fucked Ellen slowly, propping himself up on his hands so that he could watch her face, her eyes opening and closing, her mouth moving but nothing coming out but small, desperate sounds. Nothing like the woman who stood like she owned that stage during the performance. Like no one there was worthy of her. Perhaps, here, she just owned him.

"Ellen," he whispered, and slid inside her again, and he was coming. Ellen made a soft noise and held on tightly. Sometimes, Geoffrey wondered why he stayed in the theater, because he got the same feeling here, with Ellen. The rapture, the lightheaded joy of something perfectly orchestrated and carried off. And, he could admit it, sex was better than Shakespeare. Ellen was better than Shakespeare, hands down.

When he finally cleared his head, he rolled off, knowing Ellen hadn't come yet. He pressed up against her side, and slid his fingers between her slick thighs. "Oh Christ," Ellen breathed out.

Geoffrey pushed two fingers into her cunt - she was so _open_ \- and thumbed her clit until she cried out and melted into the bed and came and came, all over his hand. He stayed inside her, as long as he could, until her breathing went deep and even. He pulled out and rested his head on her belly, tracing circles on the smooth skin of her hip with his slick fingertips.

_ **Swear his thought over  
By each particular star in heaven, and  
By all their influences; you may as well  
Forbid the sea for to obey the moon.** _

The night of the final show, Geoffrey was unreasonably grateful for the end of this run, and hopefully the end of all disasters associated with it. He had plans to go out and _enjoy_ the damn thing if it killed him, and to enjoy Ellen, at the very least.

It was worlds better than before. There were no holes in his costume. David was amazingly good for only having been on stage for a couple of nights. And mercifully, all of the sets stayed in place.

Ellen was standing on stage, as a statue, about to reawaken. She was perfectly still. Geoffrey moved about the stage, speaking of his long-lost wife and how he had wronged her.

Then he froze. Goddamn, the lights were hot, and he could feel himself sweating. He couldn't move his legs, couldn't open his mouth, nothing. Oh God.

One.

Ellen opened her lips just enough to hiss, "Geoffrey. Are you all right?" He wanted to nod, but his head wouldn't move. He'd lost the ability to control any of his muscles.

Two.

He made the possibly fatal mistake of turning his head imperceptibly toward the audience, to the rows and rows of faces, of unblinking eyes. He could hear them shifting in their seats, the pages of their programs rustling.

Three.

He cast his eyes toward the wings, toward Oliver. Oliver's eyes were wide, but his gaze was steady. Geoffrey could see his lips moving, almost like he was trying to feed Geoffrey the words, put them in his mouth. He stayed connected, Oliver willing him. His blood was pounding in his ears, his breath harsh and fast, his palms damp. Breathe, damn it, _breathe_.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in, trying to calm the words spinning in his head, Polixenes and Hermione and Leontes, one big mixed-up mess in his head that he couldn't shake, couldn't escape.

Okay. Okay. Do it. Goddamn it.

"As now she might have done, so much to my good comfort as it is now piercing my soul." His voice was shaky, but the words were coming, and he could feel his body loosening up a bit. Ellen's sigh of relief was audible on the stage, which wasn't very statue-like at all. Geoffrey finished his line and Jeannie picked up hers. He looked back at Oliver, who nodded slowly and then disappeared from the wings.

He somehow made it through the rest of the act, through the curtain calls and the bows with Ellen's small hand clutching tight in his clammy one, like she knew he needed it. The lights were still bright and hot and scary as hell, his head still a fucking mess. He tried to keep his breathing even, steady, calm.

He fucking hated this play.

_ **Is whispering nothing?  
Is leaning cheek to cheek? Is meeting noses?  
Kissing with inside lip? Stopping the career  
Of laughter with a sigh?-a note infallible  
Of breaking honesty!** _

Geoffrey sat in his dressing room, facing the mirror. The cloth was wet and cool on his face, and the makeup was coming off in stripes on the fabric. He watched his face reappear from underneath, taking away the stage. The voices in his head were quieting down to a dull roar, and he felt like he was regaining his equilibrium, mostly.

He was stalling; he was supposed to meet Ellen and Oliver for drinks to celebrate the end of the run with the cast. What he truly wanted was to go home and crawl into bed, for days if possible, with Ellen preferably. But he felt this overwhelming need to demonstrate that everything was fine, after his little incident on stage that night, because it _was_ fine. So. Drinks and some stories around the table about tonight's show and those that preceded it, then he and Ellen could excuse themselves and go home.

And forget _The Winter's Tale_ ever happened.

He put his clothes back on, hung his tunic with Jenny's tiny, perfect stitches down the side on a hanger, and stepped into the hallway.

Ellen had her back against the wall, her mouth turned up in a laugh, a smile. Oliver's back was to Geoffrey, his palm pressed to the wall beside Ellen's head. Oliver was leaned in close, and Ellen was laughing quietly, and he thought he could hear Oliver whispering something. He couldn't make out what it was.

Geoffrey cleared his throat and Ellen looked forward, her smile fading slightly. Oliver turned and then pushed himself away from the wall.

Geoffrey's heart sped up again, but he willed it down. He was losing his mind. Ellen was his, he knew that. It was stupid to thinking anything otherwise, and, for Christ's sake, Oliver was gay. Really, really gay.

He moved closer and draped his arm around Ellen's shoulders, tugging her along just a little bit as they walked down the hallway, Oliver falling into step beside them. "First round's on me," Geoffrey said, and pulled Ellen closer. She ducked her head into his arm.

Oliver's hand came to rest on Geoffrey's shoulder. "We can have a few drinks to Leontes and Polixenes and Hermione, celebrate before we dive into _Hamlet_. What do you say, Geoffrey?"

"Yes. I think that sounds perfect."

To infidelity and sanity. To _The_ fucking _Winter's Tale_. To _Hamlet_.


End file.
